


Sounds Like Home

by neworldiscoverer



Category: Oliver & Company (1988)
Genre: Gen, fluff explosion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:36:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neworldiscoverer/pseuds/neworldiscoverer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The book was finished; good old Sparky had fallen asleep in his brand new dog house, dreaming of running through bunny-filled fields, his right hind leg twitching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot set immediately post-movie.

You might think that life would be gravy now that Sykes wasn’t on our backs anymore, but you’d be wrong. The reality of it is that most everything is still the same. Sure, it's nice to not have that shark and his Dobermans lurking in the shadows behind us, but going home to the shipyard didn’t feel much different than any other night. 

The book was finished; good old Sparky had fallen asleep in his brand new dog house, dreaming of running through bunny-filled fields, his right hind leg twitching. Fagin passed out before even reclining all the way back on his chair. Probably a food-induced coma. My belly ached from the rich food it wasn’t used to handling. Francis and Tito were konked out on the floor in front of the busted television set. One of them was snoring. Maybe both. They looked fine as they were, but I dragged a duvet over them anyway, leaving a trail of discolored cotton stuffing that had fallen out of the ripped seam. 

Einstein was lying down, legs tucked under his long body, tail flat against the floor, facing a wall. Between the wall and his nose was a colorful ball. I stood over his shoulder and watched him bounce it back and forth, like a game of pong, until he noticed me. When he did, he lost his focus and the ball slipped past him. I stopped it with my paw and nudged it back towards him. The Great Dane’s jaws enveloped it and it disappeared inside his vast mouth. He grinned goofily at me, rolling it over his tongue. “Dodger isn’t back yet,” he said around it, as if he’d only just become aware of the fact. I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was an off-hand manner. We all had arrived back home on our own time. Dodger would be back eventually. He always was. You couldn’t keep a leash on him. Figuratively or literally. 

“I want a birthday party for my birthday.” The ball lolled out of Einstein’s mouth coated with an impressive amount of drool. 

“Oh yeah?” The air was stale and salty when my jaws snapped out a yawn around it. “When’s your birthday?” I asked.

He looked puzzled then, dropping the ball between his paws. It leaves a thin, wet line when he rolls it gently towards the wall. The ball bumps against the wall and doesn’t bounce back to him. “I don’t know.” His eyelids are drooping.

“It’s okay. We can make one up for you,” I suggest. I look towards my sleeping quarters. It looks pretty welcoming from here. Dodger’s inner tube bed looks slightly deflated. Or maybe it’s always been that way; I just never paid enough attention to it.

“You’d do that for me?”

I’d almost forgotten Einstein. It’s how I know that I’m tired. Time to turn in for the night. “Sure,” I tell him, my tone easy like the smile I give him. He’s half asleep when I check on him in the dim light. The lamp over Fagin’s chair is on. I go over to turn it off, standing on my hind legs, one front paw on the armrest of the chair to keep my balance. I pause there because he’s talking. Mumbling in his sleep. He still dreams about Sykes. I guess that’s normal. I still dream about Roscoe. Those yellow eyes and the yelp before he and DeSoto were lit up with white-blue streaks, their sinewy bodies convulsing uncontrollably. I hope that I don’t mutter about it while I sleep. I reach out and push my nose against Fagin's forehead until he is quiet. He rubs a heavy hand over his face, still fast asleep, and I drop back to the floor.

Dodger is on the steps. We can all recognize each other’s footsteps coming down into the gallery. Tito is always quick. He bounces down the steps two at a time, unless he’s carrying something heavy. Francis is the loudest. I know it sounds silly to say out loud, but his steps are dramatic, each one like a clearly pronounced syllable. Einstein still falls down the stairs, three times out of five. I’ve known him to fall up them, too. I didn’t know that was possible until he came along. Oliver used to take the steps one at a time. All four kitten paws on each step. 

Roscoe, for being as bulky as he and DeSoto were, all shoulders and brawn, had been surprisingly quiet. Like maybe Sykes had their nails clipped.

Dodger is steady and rhythmic on the steps. He moves to a beat. Sometimes the tempo is faster or slower, but he’s always on beat. 

I head into my makeshift tent and turn around so that my head sticks out. 

He told me that he knows when it’s me coming down because I sound like home. 

Whatever that means.

I close my eyes and listen to his paws. It’s a nice, light rhythm tonight, not surprising considering that we’re all in a bright mood today. Well, other than me, being the oddball female again. The beat pauses in front of me, but it’s not a complete stop. I hold my breath until I hear the creak and shift of him on his bed.

The boat is quiet now. Well, as quiet as it ever is with at least three snorers and the squeal of rats and the rattle of loose boards and windows. 

“Hey Rita.”

I lift an ear to hear him, but keep my eyes shut. 

It’s his voice that he uses near sleep. Right before falling asleep and right after waking up. Normally he drops right off to sleep. Maybe he's awake tonight because he dreams, too. Maybe we're both not ready to dream yet. I wonder if he dreams of her, all wide eyed, frizzy haired, nails glued onto the rail. Or maybe he dreams of her with her hair perfectly coiffed, pretty pink bow in place, that little upturn of her nose.

“You awake?” He doesn’t even bother to whisper. Knows that the rest of our company might as well be dead to the world. It’s usually just us at night, like this. Alone with our thoughts and each other. Most nights, it’s enough.

“No. I’m asleep.” I pause for a second. “What do you think, Dodge?” I can see the whites of his eyes, the flash of his teeth when he yawns, big and leisurely. 

“You got an extra blanket?”

Stupid yawns and their stupid contagiousness.

When I stop exchanging yawns with him, I answer. “Nope, you’re SOL tonight.”

I can’t tell if he laughs at that. He makes a noise, close-mouthed. Shifts some more. I can’t really see him in the dark so I stop trying. The place smells like aftershave or cologne. Probably remnants of Georgette’s failed makeover on Tito. It doesn’t do much to cover the smell of rotting wood among other things. It’s not really a stench anymore, not to me, not after all this time.

I don’t know what exactly it is that possess me, but some time later I’m out of my tent and standing in front of that flat inner tube and cockeyed umbrella. “Hey Dodge.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, cocks one ear in response. I knew he wasn’t asleep yet. Hadn’t started the deep breathing. Always on beat.

“You got a spare blanket?”

His eyelids twitch. I can see the detail now that I’m right up in front of him. There’s some moonlight coming in from where a board has splintered. He opens his eyes, first one and then the other, and I can see the dilation of his pupils.

“You cold, Rita?” It’s his sleep voice now. Maybe he’s trying to be smug, trying to say it with a smirk, but it doesn’t come through.

“Is that a no?” I can actually feel some of his body heat when I stand this close.

His eyes slid shut again. “Only if you want it to be.” His lips barely move even as he eases over.

I slip into the space, my back against his belly. Instant warmth. It’s nice. I settle my weight into his and rest my head on the edge of the inner tube. It smells faintly of rubber and chlorine. His chin bumps against the top of my head and I bump back.

“SOL, huh?” Now he’s being smug even through the groggy sleepiness.

I make to get up, to move back to my place where there’s less snark and more cold. He hooks his head over my neck and tugs me back down with him. Okay. Maybe not. 

I grumble a little, my mouth shut so that it comes out as a low hum. Maybe it sounds more like a content noise than a complaint. I don’t know.

He puts a foreleg over my shoulders. Huh. I guess I’m not leaving. I don’t really mind, even if his fur smells like birthday cake frosting. There are worse things.


End file.
